seconds pass
by saltzmans
Summary: Magnus always knew he was going to have to live without Alec. He just didn't think it was going to happen this soon—malec.


**notes **| for laura.

* * *

You can think of one hundred and one ways you could have saved him.

But in the end the facts stay as follows;

You. Were. Too. Late.

/

You've always realized that one day you were going to have to live without him. You just didn't realise it was going to be this soon. So when it does happen; when your life begins to splinter apart around you, a mess of tears and ice and the shadow of blue, blue eyes, you let the waves of helplessness take you. You let them carry you far, far away from the mumbled apologizes and furtive looks which are just waiting for you to explode, and you hold onto the last shard of a boy with black hair and pale skin and azure eyes which died before their time.

/

Clary tells you. She's banging on the door of your flat, hanging onto the frame like it's her anchor. Her face is crimson and there are tears flooding down her face. Her breath comes in ragged pants. You look at her for an explanation but all she seems to be able to is sob. For a moment you wonder if something has happened to Simon, or Jace, or Izzy.

But then–

The second his name leaves her lips time seems to slow down. All you can hear is the sound of your own heartbeat, there's a rushing in your head and you're vaguely aware of sparks shooting out of your hands. Clary reaches out for you but you don't want her to touch you.

Because now, the only person you ever want to touch you is lying on a bed in a morgue with his throat ripped out.

/

Clary tells you about it, through half chocked sobs and timid whispers, and you let the words wash over you. The sparks have stopped shooting from your hands and you feel dead.

You appreciate the irony of that, in a sick kind of way. You feel dead, but really you're the only one who's actually alive. You're alive and it should be glorious because _living _is beautiful and their are places to see and things to try but now–now they don't mean a single fucking thing because Alec–stupid, stupid, impulsive Alec–is the single man you want to see them with.

And now that's nothing short of impossible.

/

The days pass in a haze. You're not quite sure how much time passes–you're not particularly sure you care either, you just sit by the window and watch the sun rise and then set and the stars tries and force their way through the foggy Manhattan skyline. You just watch it–you watch it because you daren't close your eyes because you know if you do all you'll be able to see is him and despite how much you fucking miss him, the last thing you want to see is Alec.

/

People pass around you, but you take little notice of them–just catching sight of a tear streaked face here, a flash of red hair there. Sometime during the second of your vigil, someone drapes a blanket round your shoulders.

You wear it for about ten minutes before throwing it to the floor.

It smells like him.

/

Clary brings you food. She tries to coax it into you–using tiny spoonfuls as if you were a baby again. In the end you swallow it only because you can't stand the site of her pitiful eyes. She updates you on the happenings of the world outside the haven which has become your apartment–Isabelle Lightwood had taken the death of her second brother far worse than her first; she had locked herself in her bedroom and had refused to see anyone for the last week. Simon–the bloody vampire of all people–had been left in charge of making sure no one fell apart completely. Jace hadn't been seen in eight days.

You feel as if you should _care_–as much as those people drove you round the bend they were your friends–but it doesn't matter anymore. You're past caring. Caring means feeling and feeling means hurting far too much.

/

Jace comes to visit you one night after Clary's gone home. He lets himself in, of course–locks have never put off the arrogant, blond haired Shadowhunter. He's reeking of whiskey, and is face is unwashed and you can tell that he's trying oh-so very hard not to endure the pain which is so very obviously wracking his body.

You can see it in his eyes.

Eyes have always been the window to that boy's heart.

"It's been a while, Herondale," you murmur and for a moment you're surprised at how huskily disused your voice sounds. Then you realise you have't spoken for over a week.

Jace nods and settles himself on the floor by your chair and his eyes shine in the moonlight. "You been keeping up alright?" Jace asks. His voice is tight. Like he's trying not to cry.

You look around the room–the dirty plates, dusty surfaces–and a foreign noise escapes you. It takes a moment for you to realise it's a laugh. "What do you think?" You reply.

Jace doesn't say anything for a second and then, "I miss him."

You take a deep breath in and stare out of the window, at the night sky and oh God, your heart burns as the words leave your mouth.

"Me too, Herondale. Me too."

/

The next morning Clary arrives early and your head is pounding so hard–Jace persuaded you too finish a bottle of vodka with him–so it takes you a moment to realise Clary's holding a black suit.

Your heart is in your mouth and before you know it you're in the bathroom vomiting up nothing. Your eyes burn and Clary's behind you, rubbing slow circles on your shoulder, telling you that _Everything Thing Is Okay _when really that's the most nonsensical bullshit you ever heard.

Eventually she coaxes you into the suit. It's pinches around your shoulders and for a while you don't think you're breathing right.

Not that you mind particularly.

/

Everyone is waiting to go to the cemetery outside the Institute when your cab pulls up. You climb out, eyes firmly planted on the pavement because you simply can't bring yourself to meet their gaze. Clary's got her hand on your elbow, steading you as you make your shaky footsteps towards to see of shoes.

Eventually you have to look up because Maryse Lightwood is telling–between breathy, barely concealed sobs–how much she appreciates you coming and you simply can't bring yourself to meet her eyes because there's so much of _Alec _in her jaw line and defiance shining at the back of blue eyes.

Then there's Izzy. Brave, beautiful Izzy Lightwood her face gaunt and marked with bruises. Izzy who's never been this _broken _refusing to say a word. You could've mistaken her for a statue–grey, silent skin–if it weren't for her hand, gripping at Simon's who's stand next to her, jaw jutted it out, the very picture of a man holding everything together.

Only Jace is missing.

From somewhere, you bring up a smile and you don't think–in all your centuries of living–that you have ever seen a group people so broken over the death of one boy.

/

You don't remember much of the ceremony.

It's a blur of tears and remembrance and Izzy beating her fists against the coffin.

At some point Jace appears. He stands at the edge of the group–a silent angel, watching over the mournful procedure. When you can't stand–once you've let loose all the tears that have built up inside you and all you feel is an empty, empty, emptiness–you join Jace.

For some reason, the rude, egoistical boy is the only one you can bare to be around. Maybe it's because he's the one who could be feeling the same way you are. Maybe.

Silently, he hands you a flask.

You take a gulp and the alcohol burns your throat.

Neither you or Jace say a thing and for a long while the pair of you stay like that–silent, just watching–until the alcohol clouds over everything you've come to know and you can convince yourself that nothing matters.

/

As time goes on you begin to get better. The wound never completely goes away, of course, and the steps you are taking are baby ones. You leave the house more–you visit Izzy and you cry into each other's shoulders until you're both drowning in a pool of tears but somehow it makes you feel a little less empty.

Clary and Jace come by. Their faces begin to look a little less gaunt and the smiles start to creep back into their eyes.

Four or five years on, Simon proposes to Izzy–or maybe it's the other way round–and their wedding is one to be remembered. Watching the newlywed couple dance, makes you feel the happiest you have in a long time.

You find yourself leaning on the sidelines with Jace again and there's a sad sort of grin on his face. "He would've liked this."

"Not that he'd ever have admitted it," you reply.

"Alec never was one for divulging things."

And for the first time in four years your heart doesn't burn to hear his name.

/

/

/

_a hundred and five years later;_

New York Cemetery stands strong on the crest of the hill. The late afternoon sun burns down on the grave stones, casting a dappled light through the leaves of the trees. Behind it, in the heart of the city, life bustles on–people are born, people live and people die.

At the gate, a man with the brightest blue hair–hair which almost seems to _sparkle_–pauses, taking a moment to gaze at the rows of tombstones, old and weathered by the seasons. In his hand he carries a flower. It's not your usual flower–it seems to shift colour as he weaves his way through the gravestones, turning from sapphire to emerald to amber to scarlet. As he reaches the very back of the graveyard–a part secluded from the rest of the world, separated by a row of poplar trees, ancient and serene–the man pauses.

There's a section of headstones, all similar in design, all with the same intricate designs–a different language?–etched onto them. The man smiles, as if he's sharing a private joke with the graves–or perhaps he's simply recalling a memory from days in the same city but years ago when he was young and the weight on his shoulders wasn't quite so heavy.

He moves on again between the headstones–pausing every so often–_Clarissa and Jonathan Herondale; Isabelle Lightwood; Lucian Greymark; William Herondale–_then he stops completely a strange look passing over his face.

_Alexander Lightwood._

The grave is significantly older than the others, cracked by time and circumstance. The blue haired man kneels slightly and places the flower against the grave. It turns to the colour of brightest blue. Then the man turns to go but if anyone had been nearby, they would of sworn he whispered goodbye.

.

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